by Ann Gosslin
Gessen said he would have whatever she was having. So she vanished into the kitchen and returned in a moment with a tea tray. He leapt up to help her, but she shook her head. ‘I’m not as decrepit as all that. It’s only when I sit too long that my bones freeze up.’
She set the tray on the table and settled into a brocade armchair. Her fine, candy floss hair was coiled in a loose chignon. A jewelled brooch in the shape of a chameleon glinted on the collar of her blouse.
‘Unusual, isn’t it?’ she said, catching his gaze. ‘My late husband had it made for me. When the children were grown, I returned to school to study biology, and later on I trained to be a docent in herpetology at the Parc Zoologique. I was keen to study for an advanced degree earlier in my life, but my father was dead set against his only daughter tramping about the countryside in search of snakes and salamanders.’
At the mention of snakes, Gessen nervously eyed the terrarium on the window ledge.
She followed his gaze. ‘No snakes over there, if you’re wondering. I keep them in another room.’ Her eyes crinkled with mirth. ‘So many people are terrified of them.’
He swallowed. Snakes in the flat? Since he was a child, he’d had an atavistic fear of anything reptilian. Especially snakes.
‘Just a couple of ordinary garden toads,’ she said, pointing at the ledge by the window. ‘Tristan and Isolde. Come spring, I’ll release them into a quiet corner of the Bois de Boulogne, but for now they make for very pleasant company.’
As intrigued as Gessen was by a woman who kept garden toads named Tristan and Isolde, he was afraid she might hold him captive for hours with her tales of amphibian delights. Best to get straight to the point, and then be on his way.
He bit into one of the tea cakes. Of course, it would be a madeleine. But no Proustian wave of memories coursed through his mind. Just thoughts of the matter at hand: to confirm Vidor’s story of his flight from Hungary as a child.
‘I’m looking for information about someone who used to live in this building,’ Gessen said, setting his teacup on the table. ‘According to civil records, a family named Kiraly lived here in the late fifties. If it’s the one I’m looking for, they would have had four daughters and a son. The gardienne mentioned you were living here during that time.’
‘Indeed I was.’ She dabbed her lips with a tissue. ‘I’ve been here for decades, though I spent my girlhood in Provence. My husband and I met during the war.’ Her eyes clouded and she picked at a loose thread on the chair cushion. ‘I sometimes wish I’d been born after it was all over, if only to be spared from the horror, but when we first came to Paris, the city was still recovering from the cataclysm. My husband found a cheap flat down the street from what had been the Gestapo’s headquarters, during the occupation, but I couldn’t bear to live there.’
She shivered violently, as if hearing the cries of the tortured. ‘Flats were a bit more expensive in this quartier, but part of this street had been damaged in the fighting, and in this building the upper-floor flats were empty. We took this one because it had the best light. My husband was a talented artist and he had the idea of taking up his painting again, but he never managed it.’ She lifted her teacup to her lips and set it down again. ‘The poor man fell into a paralysing depression. At one point, things were so bad I suggested we emigrate to Canada, or even New Zealand, to start over. But he didn’t believe in running away. So we stayed. But the seeds of flight were sown in the next generation. All three of our children live overseas. Two in Montreal, one in London.’
She shook herself from her reverie. ‘I’m so sorry. Kiraly, did you say? What kind of name is that, Russian?’
‘Hungarian.’
As she turned to look out the window, a shadow crossed her face. ‘If I recall correctly, a Hungarian family did live on the first floor. But I don’t believe their name was Kiraly. Something that started with an S, if memory serves. I didn’t know them well, only to nod to in the vestibule.’ She rubbed her forehead. ‘S… something. Soros, perhaps?’ She squeezed her eyes shut. ‘Once or twice a piece of their mail was delivered to me by mistake. I can just about see the name on the envelope. Sov… something.’ Her eyes snapped open. ‘Sovàny. C’est ça. A Jewish family, I believe. One of the few who escaped the camps.’ Her lids fluttered and she dabbed her mouth with a napkin. ‘One time, when I took one of the letters down to her, Mrs Sovàny invited me in for tea. I declined, however, as I could hear a heated argument going on at the back of the flat. It sounded like two of the children were quarrelling, a boy and a girl.’
‘So, there was a boy?’ Gessen’s ears pricked up.
‘Yes, I believe so.’
‘Do you remember his name?’
She shook her head. ‘A slight boy, if I’m not mistaken. Hair the colour of horse chestnuts.’ She fiddled with the chameleon brooch. ‘I’m sorry I’m not much help to you.’ Her eyes filmed over. ‘It was so long ago.’
He assured her she’d been a great help, indeed, and thanked her for her time. To show his appreciation for inviting him into her home, he forced himself to approach the terrarium to admire Tristan and Isolde, though the creatures’ warty skin and oddly intelligent eyes gave him gooseflesh. Ever since he was a child, following a nasty incident with a garden snake, he’d been wary of reptiles, even the supposedly benign ones.
Another dead end was his first thought, as he exited the building. Though it might be a lead, after all. The name wasn’t right, but the presence of a Hungarian family in the flat might be a thread he could follow. His futile search, thus far, through the rain-swept streets had stripped him of whatever energy he’d felt when he’d boarded the train for Paris in the predawn darkness. But he still had three more addresses on his list. One of them might be the very one he was looking for.
24
Paris, France
October 1968
The party is already in full swing by the time he slinks through the door at twenty past seven. His plan is to make a brief appearance, mingle for a few minutes if absolutely necessary, then slip away. He didn’t want to come at all, but when his roommate arrived home with yet another girl in tow, it seemed best to make himself scarce.
The invitation for the party arrived last week at his student flat. A heavy white card, engraved with black calligraphy, requested the pleasure of his company at a reception for the first-year foreign students. The dress code stipulated jackets and ties for the boys, dresses for the girls. Wearing a jacket and tie to lectures had been done away with as part of the student unrest in May. But for a formal soiree, it made sense not to appear in sloppy jeans and a ripped T-shirt.
In a borrowed suit jacket and burgundy tie, slightly frayed at the ends, he slides his hand along the sweeping balustrade. As he ascends the winding staircase, his palms prickle with sweat. Classical music filters into the hall. A faculty member with a beard and black-rimmed glasses is in the middle of a speech when he ducks into the grand salon and finds an empty place at the back, trying not to gawp at the grandeur of the sculpted ceiling and gold filigree. Tuxedoed waiters circulate with trays of drinks and hors d’oeuvres, under a blaze of lights from the crystal chandeliers. His terror mounts as he scans the clusters of students deep in conversation, pausing from their animated chatter to drink from their wine glasses. He hangs back on the sidelines, waiting for the right moment to slip out the door. When a waiter passes him with a tray, he accepts a glass of sparkling water, only to discover he’s chosen champagne by mistake. He holds it awkwardly in his hands.
The odour pricks his nostrils, and when he ventures a sip, the taste is pleasantly sweet. After drinking half, his limbs feel lighter and his jaw loosens. Though it’s only the second time he’s drunk liquor in his life, he’s heard about alcohol being a social lubricant. Now he understands. He twirls the empty glass in his hand and smiles. Only to look away nervously as he catches sight of a girl staring at him. Her long, dark hair is brushed back from her forehead and held by a clip. The green-and-orange paisley d
ress reveals a great deal of leg. Is she about to come over? He feels a flash of panic.
If she asks, he will tell her his name is Manuel and that he hails from a village in southern Spain. After the humiliation during his first week in Paris, when those three girls invited him to join them for a drink, he’s sworn off telling anyone his real name or where he is from. His Spanish is rusty, which might give him away, but they’re supposed to speak French together anyway.
A blonde girl in a blue dress and string of white beads keeps looking his way. She’s about to head over when a plump boy with dark, springy hair smoothed down with pomade hijacks her attention. Another girl, sporting a black beret and dressed in a lumpy crocheted vest over a short green skirt, casts him a friendly glance. One oddball to another is how he interprets it. But he’s too afraid to talk to her. His hands are sweaty, the necktie too tight. What he wants most is to flee.
Misfit that he is, what is he doing here, anyway? Why had he ever thought he had the right to be in this gilded room, an impoverished boy from a backwards country, stranded amongst the gilt and crystal? A peasant whose origins would be exposed the moment he opened his mouth. The girl in the black beret looks too smart to fall for his claim of Spanish heritage. Maybe, if he’s lucky, no one will ask. It’s not as if they’re wearing nametags with their personal histories branded in ink.
Manuel. He practises the name under his breath. She’s coming his way, and he panics. Breathe, he counsels himself. Breathe and you’ll be fine. Manuel. He tries out the sound on an exhalation of breath. Here she comes. He remembers to smile. Je m’appelle Manuel. Enchanté de faire ta connaissance.
25
Clinique Les Hirondelles
Saint-Odile, Switzerland
27 November 2008
A heavy snowfall, the first of the season, had blanketed the valley in a layer of white. Vidor dragged his feet behind the fidgety lad who escorted him to the arts building on the other side of the Zen garden. After depositing him at the door like an unwanted package, the attendant gave him an odd look and scuttled away.
The air inside the brightly lit room smelled of chalk and turpentine. He’d never had art at school, and no memory of making mud pies or finger-painting as a child. For as long as he could remember, it was the world of chemistry and biology, and the workings of the brain that set his curiosity on fire. Numbers and patterns, the circuitry of perception. And the sheer wonder of the neuronal axon potential, without which complex life forms would not exist. Across the room on a low shelf, a row of seashells and fossils and minerals glinted in the morning light.
Neither Gessen nor Dr Lindstrom had explained how art therapy might improve his mental health. Whatever it took to get back home, he was willing to try. With an extensive report on his current research findings due at the Worthington Foundation by mid-December, he could only hope that Farzan, or one of his other graduate students, had taken over the task. If he missed the deadline, he could lose millions in funding. Surely that man he’d attacked in Copenhagen had been back home for weeks now, and no harm done. So why shouldn’t he return to his work as if nothing had happened? In his absence, that idiot Dodson was surely plotting to usurp Vidor’s position as department chair. A young Machiavelli, not to mention a whiny bastard. Just the thought of that man running rampant over his domain made the bile rise in his throat.
* * *
A woman in a hand-knit sweater the colour of dried leaves appeared from the depths of a supply cupboard. ‘You are Vidor, yes?’ She strode forward and clasped his hand. ‘I am Isabelle. Welcome.’ Her red-and-orange embroidered skirt swished around her legs. Gold earrings swung in her ears.
‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ She gestured at the window. ‘Wonderful light. A good day to make art. Come.’ She took his arm and led him to a large table by the window. In the currents of air he caught a whiff of her perfume. A musky odour of cardamom and cloves that made his head spin. An exotic scent… he’d smelled it before, but where? An old-world fragrance, reminiscent of incense, or something from an Asian bazaar.
Last night he’d slept badly, having been woken from uneasy dreams by someone banging on the door to his room. He’d stumbled out of bed in terror, but when he opened the door, no one was there. A full moon was shining in the black sky, and he stepped onto the terrace in his slippers to listen. Nothing but the rustle of small creatures in the underbrush, and the mournful hoot of an owl. Before crawling back to bed he counted, three times, the sandpipers in the painting on the wall, each time coming up with only nine birds. Where was the tenth? He woke in the morning, bleary with fatigue, only to find to his consternation that ten birds skittered along the sand in the receding tide. It was this place. If he wasn’t mad before, he would be soon if he didn’t find a way to break free. As long as that damn watercolour in his room played tricks with his mind, the last thing he wanted was to create a painting of his own.
‘Vidor?’
Her eyes, amber and gold, like a lynx, swam into view. ‘Would you like a glass of water. Or perhaps some tea? I always keep a kettle going.’ She nipped into the anteroom and returned a moment later with two steaming mugs. ‘My own secret blend, a recipe from my village. Mountain herbs picked by hand. Very calming.’ She handed him a mug. ‘Now, tell me about yourself.’ They settled onto high wooden stools in front of an easel. ‘Have you ever made art? Painting and sketching, perhaps. Or maybe something with clay?’
Her expression was so earnest, he was ashamed to admit he was absolutely rubbish at creative expression and had never so much as doodled with a pencil during a department meeting.
‘Don’t worry. Anyone can make art.’ She tapped her sternum. ‘We all have a Michelangelo inside.’ On the table she placed a pad of heavy paper and a number of implements. Pencils, chalk, brushes, finger-paints. ‘Are you right-handed?’ He nodded. ‘Then I suggest you try drawing with your left hand to start. But first, we do some breathing and visualisation exercises. This wakes up the right side of your brain, you see?’ She tapped her head and smiled. ‘Then I’ll leave you alone to make your art.’
She slipped behind him, ‘May I?’ and pressed her right hand on his abdomen and the left on the small of his back. ‘Eyes closed. Deep breaths.’ He closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of her perfume. But as his lungs filled with air, a familiar darkness descended, followed by a whoosh and a whisper, like bats at dusk. His knees sagged.
‘That’s right. Deep breaths, in and out. Picture your diaphragm, how it pushes the air out of your lungs. Feel the oxygen flooding into each of your cells. Breath is life. Never forget this. Without breath, we die.’
Vidor breathed in, breathed out, feeling absurd. But the weight of her hand on his belly was comforting, and at last the rustle and chatter in his head began to recede. In spite of the calming effect of this silly exercise, he had little belief it would provide him with the artistic impulse he lacked. If a Michelangelo was indeed coiled inside him like a snail, they had yet to meet.
The clouds broke, and sunlight streamed into the room, that diamond-sharp light so peculiar to the Alps, though a close cousin to the intense shimmer of the high desert. A camel caravan, plodding through the dunes, flashed before his eyes. But that was absurd. He’d never been to the desert. A city boy, he’d known little of life outside the bustle and noise of the streets. Women laden with purchases from the market stalls. Dusty alleys. The clatter of donkeys’ hooves on the sun-baked stones. He closed his eyes. No, that couldn’t be right. There were no donkeys in Budapest. It was the old familiar dream come to life. The strange nocturnal visitation he’d been having off and on for years. A desert plain baking in the noonday sun. A flat blue sea winking on the horizon. Wooden carts rattling through the streets, sour with dung and sweat, punctuated by a melodious wail, summoning the workers from the fields as the sun slipped below the mountains.
He rubbed his eyes and blinked to find himself alone in the room. When he turned to the easel, he started. A drawing, executed in chalk, aglow with
the shades of ochre and umber. To the left, the sea was a hard slash of blue on the horizon. To the right, a range of sand-coloured hills faded into the distance. A lone figure, head bent, his face in shadow, gazed at the sea. What was this? He picked it up, intending to tear it into pieces when Isabelle appeared from nowhere and plucked it from his hands.
‘Let me have a look. Why, it’s wonderful.’ She beamed, as if he were a child who’d made a handprint in clay.
Vidor squeezed the bridge of his nose. ‘I don’t…’ He had no memory of making the sketch. And where did such a scene come from? ‘I’ve never been to the desert.’
‘When the muse awakens… ’ She gave him a mischievous look. The beads on her necklace clacked as she pinned his drawing to the wall. ‘You do not mind? When the sky is grey, your beautiful drawing will remind me of a holiday I once made to the Sinai many years ago. We rode camels in the desert with a Bedouin as our guide and slept under the stars. In the morning, the sand glowed like gold in the rising sun. Just like your painting.’
Hampered by a strange paralysis in his limbs, Vidor struggled to suck oxygen into his lungs. The scent of paint and turpentine was making him ill.
‘You come back on Thursday, yes?’
He nodded dumbly without thinking. When was Thursday? What was today? A sharp pain stabbed his temple. One of his blinding headaches was coming on, and he hurried away to his room, where he could lie down in the dark and shut out the world.
* * *
Halfway to Montreux, Gessen gazed out the window at the clouds on the horizon as he mulled over his conversation with Madame Joubert. Another false lead, apparently, and without a new one, the trail had run cold. Perhaps Vidor had lied, and he hadn’t lived anywhere near the catacombs as a child. It would have amused him to send his doctor off on a wild goose chase, though Vidor couldn’t possibly know that he’d gone to Paris.